


The Sparrow Who Enchanted a Lion

by AmdelMari



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 40's-50's Noire Style, Alternate Universe, Break Up, Canon Divergence, Dragon Age II into Inquisition, F/M, Heartache, Longing, Quick Burn, Romance, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmdelMari/pseuds/AmdelMari
Summary: No matter how far you run, you still can never escape your heart.  A truth two unlikely people find out the hard way.  Through the turmoil of Kirkwall to the craziness of the Inquisition days...Hawke and Rutherford must face not only the many obstacles surrounding them but also each other.Set in a late forties to early-mid fifties timeframe.





	1. Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> I have always had a serious love of the forties and fifties. It's...honestly kind of ridiculous how much I love the styles and culture of that WW2 era. So, why not mesh two of my absolute favorites into one? I've been actually toying with this idea for a lot longer than I care to admit. It just finally decided to let me write it. 
> 
> As an FYI, I am doing background research as I go. So I'm trying to stick as authentically to the WW2 weaponry, clothing, and whatnot that I can when I describe things. If it gets lost in the flow, forgive me! Here you are! Chapter one!

**Chapter One  
** **~Songbird~**

This was not a usual place he frequented. But tonight wasn’t about winding down and kicking back for an hour after a stressful day. Tonight was business. After the tip had come in about a smuggler’s den in the heart of Low-Town Kirkwall, it was paramount that they investigate. Of course, in matters such as these, discretion was a necessary evil. So his partner Rylen strode up to the smoke clouded entrance alongside him. Piano music drifted out as the two ducked through the doorway. They tucked their brimmed hats under their arms respectfully. Several pairs of eyes glanced their way. 

Cullen Rutherford dug out a crisp twenty note and held it to the door-watchman. The man took it with a nod and jerked his chin to the two men to go on in. They did so. Rylen nudged him and motioned for a table in the back corner of the lounge club. They made their way to the empty table and slid into their seats. A lovely blonde sidled up with an extra sway in her hips. She slid them each a drink menu and a saucy wink. Cullen didn’t pay her much heed. Rylen, however, flashed the blonde a rather inviting grin. She giggled as she sauntered away. 

Rylen leaned over, “now _that’s_ what I call service…”

Cullen bit back a snort, “you would.”

“Not all of us blighters are sticks in the mud.”

“I am not—”

“Ha!” Rylen sat back, eying the menu. 

Cullen rolled his eyes and set his hat upon the table. A break in music set a lull over the room. Then the piano tune changed to something…sensual in nature. He glanced up and felt his breath leave him in a whoosh. The woman on stage was a vision, to say the least. Her midnight tresses were pulled up into a twisted fashion that let tendrils caress her pale shoulders. Her dress was…enough to make a man pant with need. The slit up the right side rode up high enough to leave no doubt that she was wearing black lace, thigh-high stockings. The garter belt clip and strap were exposed before delving under the slip of fabric to where the seductive garment was suspended. Across the breast was a scrunched black lace over the blood red fabric that hugged her curves like a lover’s embrace before dripping like the dark life-carrying liquid through one’s veins to her ankles. Her hands were covered with yet more black lace in elbow-high gloves. Her lips were three shades darker than her dress; her eyes smudged in a smoky look. Her eyes were large, lovely pools of grey-green that were a bit closer to grey than green. Her stance in stiletto heels was impressive as she sang out in that velvety, silken voice. 

Rylen cleared his throat, making Cullen start. “I’d ask what’s got you distracted, but I think that’s a rather obvious answer…”

Cullen flushed as the waitress returned with a flirtatious smile. “I’ll just take a whiskey on the rocks.”

Rylen leaned forward, “I’ll have the Starkhaven scotch on rocks, if you please, lovely.”

The blonde smirked and leaned far more forward than necessary, showing quite the display down her dress for the two men. Cullen averted his gaze out of self-respect and dignity. Rylen cleared his throat and also averted his own gaze. She straightened with a soft laugh and sashayed off to fulfill their orders. 

“Well, that was…a bit more than expected,” Rylen adjusted his tie and collar. 

Cullen chuckled at him openly, “you flirted. You get what you dish out.”

“Aye, so you’ve said before.”

“Why do you flirt so lasciviously then?”

“Why don’t _you_ flirt, ever?”

Cullen scoffed and turned back to the singer. The tune picked up and she began to sway a bit with the beat. He watched her face. She was eying the whole room as she sang. She kept flashing small smiles at various patrons. Then those eyes found him. He stiffened in his seat. Under her full scrutiny, Cullen wasn’t certain what to do. His mouth ran a bit dry. She winked at him before turning back to the rest of the room. Next to him, Rylen snickered. Their waitress returned and set down their beverages. As she did so, she addressed Cullen.

“Seems Sparrow’s taken a shine to you, serrah.”

Cullen blinked, “I…er, pardon?”

She giggled, and motioned to the singer. “Sparrow, she’s the lovely creature singing currently.”

Sparrow…he slid his gaze to her. “Oh, I see.”

“She rarely winks at customers unless she likes what she sees,” the woman smirked at him knowingly. “Not that I can blame her…Maker you’re a handsome one.”

Cullen flushed with color. Were all the women here so blasted bold?! Rylen was coughing to cover up a laugh at his expense. Cullen cleared his throat and smiled thinly at the woman before him. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome, handsome,” she then left them to their devices. Rylen wiped a stray tear of mirth from his eye. 

“If only you could see your face, mate!”

“Shut it, Rylen.”

Rylen held his hands up before he cleared his throat sharply. As he lifted his glass of scotch, he pointedly looked to the other corner of the club, “far corner, your three o’clock.”

Cullen knew better than to look outright. He reached for his drink and knocked his hat purposefully to the floor. He bent to pluck it up and cast his glance then. A few men stood in the back corner around a man seated at a table. Smoke plumed from the man’s cigar. One of the men was facing the table, sweating profusely as he gesticulated to the seated man as though pleading his case. Cullen sat back and nodded just barely to Rylen. 

“That’s a bit suspicious.”

“Aye,” Rylen agreed.

Cullen froze as the lyrics from the woman hit his ears. He looked over at her, her eyes locked onto his. 

_“Working on the weekend, baby, She’s working all through the night, A jump into the deep end, Gave her the evidence she required. Take five, she’s got pearls, Don’t fake it when it comes to making money, So…she smiles, but that’s cruel. If you knew what she’d think, if you knew what she was after… Sometimes she wonders…and she laughs in her frustration._

_Would someone please explain… The reason for her strange behavior. In exploitation’s name… We must be working for the skin trade.”_

His heart was thundering in his chest at what the lyrics could possibly be alluding to. She flicked her eyes quickly to the corner he’d just been glancing at and back. She then turned her attention elsewhere in the room. She didn’t skip a beat; didn’t miss a word. Cullen turned to Rylen to see if he’d also noticed the singer’s focus upon him. But Rylen was busy watching the men in the corner discretely. Cullen turned back to the singer. It was though that exchange never happened with how easily she was back to flirtatious smiles and smooth rhythmic lyrics. 

“Damn,” Rylen sighed. Cullen turned to him.

“What is it?”

Rylen glanced at Cullen then back, “they’re leaving. I couldn’t see anything that could warrant our involvement. Shite.”

Cullen swallowed as he looked over to see they were, in fact, shuffling out. He sighed. Rylen was right. Without probable cause, following them could cause them more trouble than good. Especially if they were caught and there was nothing to go on. Stannard wouldn’t stand for them possibly dragging the Order’s name through the mud. Even if there was a chance they could apprehend an illegal smuggler. He growled and sat back in his seat. 

The woman stepped back from the microphone then. She dipped a tiny bow and several catcalls along with applause came from the many tables around the club. She smiled at them, turning from the microphone. When she glanced his way, he could swear she flashed him an irritated glare before she stepped backstage and out of his sight. He released a breath he’d not realized he was holding. The blonde came over then. 

“Are you two going to need anything else? Another drink? Something…_else_?” She bat her long lashes. 

Rylen cleared his throat, “thank you, lass. We’ll just be paying for these now.”

“Absolutely, Charming,” she handed them their bill. Rylen laid down enough notes and coin to cover both drinks and a hefty tip. The blonde faltered, shock evident on her face, “oh…thank you, serrah.”

“Och, where’d the _‘Charming’_ bit get off to, now?” Rylen teased her as he rose to his feet.

She smiled warmly at him, “it’s just waiting for the next ten minutes when my shift ends…if, you know…you’d be interested?”

Rylen glanced at Cullen. Cullen snorted, “I’m sure he can find the time, can’t you, Rylen?”

“Seems so, lovely,” Rylen answered with a smile for the blonde. 

“Edith,” she said, “I’ll meet you at the bar then.”

Rylen watched her walk off; she glanced back at him over her shoulder with a giggle. The dark-haired man turned to Cullen, “uh…was that a good idea, mate? I mean, she _is_ lovely. But, is this—?”

“Did you take chastity vows?”

“No.”

Cullen stood, grabbing his hat, “then enjoy your evening, Rylen. I’ll see you tomorrow. And…please…_no_ details.”

Rylen chuckled and clapped his shoulder before stepping around Cullen. Hat in hand, the man jogged off to the bar at the raised back portion of the club. Cullen took that as his cue. He headed for the exit and stepped outside. The dank scent of Low-Town made him scrunch his nose as he slipped his hat onto his head. He tucked his hands into his pants pockets and hunched his shoulders to the biting night air. Being so close to the docks made the night’s chill even less comforting. He decided to take the alleyway shortcut back toward the private dock that led to the Gallows. He was maybe five minutes into his walk when he paused. A figure was leaning up against the alleyway wall up ahead. He frowned as he squinted through the foggy night air. He shifted his hand to his back where his dagger rested along his spine in its hidden sheath under his vest. He was without his usual rifle as he wasn’t in his full regalia, but a dagger would suit his needs just fine should he need to defend himself. 

He slowly continued forward. As he did, his grip relaxed in muted surprise. Blood red fabric began to materialize through the fog; the color darker and honestly more seductive in the dimly lit evening. The lovely singer from the club reclined with her milky leg propped behind her on the wall, her arms crossed under her full breasts. Maker, but she was a temptation he didn’t need tonight. He wasn’t sure what to do here. He lifted his gaze to find her watching him closely. His gait was far slower now. Cautious. 

“And here I thought Chantry boys were supposed to be upstanding, chaste citizens.”

He almost groaned. Even her voice held that light teasing note to it. It was feminine but also very smooth to listen to. Her Ferelden accent was familiar yet held an edge of Marcher to it. Not uncommon in these times around here. But with her? It fit like a lost puzzle piece one just found. She rose her brows expectantly at him. He realized he had yet to respond to her. 

“That’s a rather assuming statement. Is there a reason you’d need to worry about our presence there?”

She snorted, a soft laugh trickling from her lips, “if you plan to interrogate me, maybe you should tie me up first.” She smirked suggestively at him.

Cullen clenched his jaw against the images her statement made him envision. “Should I?” He realized what that sounded like when she looked at him a bit stunned. He sighed, reaching up to rub his neck, “interrogate you, I mean…”

“Down, tiger,” she pushed from the wall, “don’t fret your pretty little head.”

He narrowed his eyes on her as she sauntered closer to him. He shifted his foot back into a defensive stance. She stopped and her eyes flicked down to his obvious movement then back to his face. Her teasing face morphed into deadly mask of excitement. She stepped to the side, moving as though to circle him. He turned with her as she did, in fact, begin to circle him. His blood began to rush with pre-battle adrenaline. When she moved, he quickly countered her kick. He blocked her right shin with his forearm. He stepped quickly into her open space to throw his hand sideways down toward her neck. He intended to hit her with the side of his palm. She dropped and rolled away. As she came to her feet, crouched like a vixen in the night, two short daggers were in her hands. How the hell had she hidden _those?!_ The only option he could think of was…well…less than decent. 

Her eyes were sparkling. He withdrew his own blade from its sheath and dropped into his own stance with one hand gripping his weapon before him firmly his other hand up as well. So, was Sparrow part of the smuggling ring? It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility. She could be the distraction in the club while they conducted business. It would make sense how she was able to peg him as part of the Order. A thought raced over him with an icy chill. Was the waitress also part of the front as well? Was Rylen in danger? He barely dodged a swipe of her dagger. He staggered a few steps and regained himself with a snarl. 

“I don’t know whether to be insulted by your distraction or impressed by your recovery.”

He sneered at her, “so…you are the front face? The one they send out to entice the crowd to hide the wicked deals in the dark?”

She blinked, her left brow lifting high in question. He noted the scar that bisected that brow now. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“…don’t play coy with me!” Cullen dashed at her. She spun away from him and swore rather colorfully as her heel broke and made her stumble.

“Maferath’s hairy balls!” She hissed, stepping aside with a bit of a limp due to the difference in height between each foot. 

Cullen almost laughed. _‘That’s not the appropriate response, Rutherford,’_ he mentally chastised himself. She sneered at her shoes before holding her hand up with dagger still in it. Her forefinger pointed up toward the sky as though telling him to wait. He was completely speechless as she kicked the shoes off with a sigh of relief. 

“Ahh…you have _no_ idea how bloody uncomfortable those damn contraptions are. I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot here,” she snorted then and giggled. “Ha. Wrong foot.”

“Are…are you mental?” Cullen asked, very wary of this strange woman. Her giggles died down with an eye roll.

“Seriously? Wrong foot? Get it? Oh, never mind. You’re no fun. Chantry boys really don’t have a sense of humor after all.”

“I beg your pardon?! I do so have a sense of humor!” He defended before he could stop himself.

She snorted, “keep begging all you like. You’ve no proof to the contrary. Now, as for all of…_this_,” she gestured between them, “I think we are both under the wrong impressions of one another. I’m _not_ with the smugglers. Well…not _those_ ones at least. Not anymore. But that’s beside the point! I’m actually trying to pinpoint their ring leader and shut them down. You seem to be onto them as well. You _did_ get my little hint, right? Hopefully you aren’t as daft as you are fetching.”

Cullen wanted to ask about the _fetching_ comment but was a bit too focused on what she’d said before then. “So that song, the lyrics…_skin trade?”_

“Oh, thank the Maker you _did_ catch it,” she breathed, her shoulders relaxing. He opened his mouth to say he had, in fact, caught it but quickly averted his eyes with a furious blush. She _lifted her sodding dress_ indecently high to sheath her blades on the insides of her thighs. 

“Maker’s breath, woman!! Can’t you turn around or something?!”

She scoffed at him, “what? Never seen the lacy bits on a lady before? Oh, wait…Chantry boy. Oops. My bad.”

“There are many things I would use to describe you, but _lady_ is not on that list currently!” Cullen snapped, keeping his arm raised as though to block the view. 

“Excuse me! I’ll have you know I happen to _be_ a lady! Sort of…”

“I find that hard to believe, _Sparrow._”

“Ugh…_’go see if the Templars will help you out, Vei,’ ‘it’s a great idea, Vei,’ ‘they’ll know what to do, Vei’…_damn them all to the fucking void. Why did I listen to them?” She imitated a higher, obnoxious tone before huffing in irritation. 

“Is there a point to this dialogue?” Cullen groused, crossing his own arms as his own annoyance rose.

“You know what? You’re _very_ unpleasant. Handsome, but unpleasant.”

“Sparrow,” he growled, “the point?”

She shivered, “ooh, see? Now _that’s_ what I call downright sensual. The growly ones are always so blasted easy on the eyes. The _point_, as you so eloquently put it, is that we’re hunting the same thing. I’ve been staking out this club for weeks now. I’ve only gotten snippets here or there about the deals that go down at that very table. They’re there once a week. Always one of three days. I’m certain they’re into the sex-slave trafficking market. Tonight wasn’t the first time I saw someone pleading for mercy on an unpaid debt.”

“Are you certain about that?” Cullen stepped toward her eagerly. “Do you have proof? Have you any evidence?”

“Not yet, but I’m trying to get close enough to find _something_.”

He sighed, yanking his hat off to rake his fingers through his hair. “Damn…”

“Damn? Why damn? Damn is never a good response.”

He grimaced, “the Templars cannot act without solid evidence.”

She stared at him for a _long_ beat before she repeated his words back but slower and drawn out. “The Templars…cannot act without solid…evidence.”

“No, I’m afraid not—”

“Well that makes _you_ about as useful as tits on a donkey.”

Cullen spluttered, “you’re very crass!”

“And you’re wasting my time!” She snapped back. “I thought the Templars were supposed to stand for something! The just and righteous hand of the Chantry! Looks like _that_ was just a ripe pile of shit.”

Cullen glared down at her, stepping up into her personal space once more. She didn’t budge but instead tilted her head back to glare right back at him. “We _do_ stand for something. We just cannot go around smiting the ground just because we _think_ there may be an issue.”

“Oh, right. I forgot,” she curled her lip at him, “the only time you Templars are ever truly _on top_ of things is where you believe blood magic is involved. Pardon me for hoping for something more out of you.”

“Now see here—” he started only to pause as he heard a sound that he would know in a heartbeat. Marching boots. For some reason he couldn’t quite place nor would he even know _why_ he did it later that night…he grabbed her and pulled them back into the shadows. She made an enraged sound that would alert the marching guards to their location. So he did the only thing he could think of that would both cover why they were there _and_ her squawking. He sealed his mouth over hers. 

She went as still as a statue. Then she shocked the bloody void out of him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back in earnest. Cullen should have just let her get caught out here by the night guard. But for some unfathomable reason…he kissed her soundly instead. Her right leg hitched up along his leg and hooked over his hip. She released the most…obscene sound as she did so. His hand accidently caught the tiny little strap on her left shoulder, slipping it down. 

The marching grew louder until it paused. A few chuckles and whispers sounded as they continued marching by. The footsteps faded off until it was nearly silent again. Sparrow nipped his bottom lip before pulling away.

“I think they’ve gone now,” she spoke smoothly with that teasing lilt again, “so you can stop groping my thigh now.”

He frowned only to realize she was right. In the moment, he’d grasped her bare thigh and was holding it up against him tightly. He blushed and released her as though she’d burnt him and stepped back quickly. He spotted his hat on the ground beside them. He groaned in dismay and stooped to pick it up. Dusting it off, he looked at it forlornly.

“Never thought I’d see a man so torn up over a dirty hat,” Sparrow mused with a chuckle as she readjusted her dress. 

He stood up, “what would _you_ know?” He snapped angrily as he shoved it back onto his head. She stared back at him. Her motions had stopped when he had bit at her. “If you find _anything_, ask for Knight-Captain Rutherford at the Gallows.”

“He’ll be able to help, I presume?”

“I should hope so,” he growled as he stalked off into the night. He didn’t bother to look back. Between the anger at his hat being soiled and the guilt that swam in his gut for speaking so rudely to a woman…he _couldn’t_ even chance a glance backward. 

* * *


	2. Evidence

* * *

Walking home through Low-Town with no shoes was far from the brightest move out there. By the time she reached home, she was fairly certain she’d have blisters. Shouldering the door open, she stepped into her family home. As always, her mother was there. Waiting for her. As though she weren’t half as capable as she was. Biting back the urge to roll her eyes, she smiled at her mother. Leandra Hawke was not an easily swayed woman, however. The greying woman stood and quickly crossed the house. 

“What in the Maker’s holy name are you _wearing_, Veidra!” Leandra hissed, trying to stay quiet so that she didn’t wake anyone. 

Veidra sighed, “I had _hoped_ a dress. But from the look on your face, I must be nude! Silly me…”

Leandra huffed, “don’t take that tone with _me_! I’m still your mother!”

“I _know_ that. Truly. You remind me _every day.”_

“Maker save my soul! You are so difficult!”

“Is there a song and dance we can try? Something new, perhaps? This one feels rather stale…”

The slap stung. It wasn’t the first time Leandra had slapped her. She deserved it for her blatant, sarcastic insolence. Veidra smiled thinly.

“Will that be all for this evening, _mother_?”

Leandra sighed and turned away. Her shoulders shook with the tears she tried to stifle and hide from Veidra. Guilt slammed into Veidra like a bludgeon. However, as much as she hated herself for making her mother cry, she also was far too prideful and stubborn to apologize either. She stepped around Leandra and moved to her shared bedroom with her younger sister. She closed the door and leaned on it with a heavy sigh. 

“You make her cry again?” Bethany mumbled from her bed.

Veidra glared at her sister’s back, “eavesdropping should be considered a crime. You’d be thrown in jail in seconds if that were the case.”

“So would almost _all_ of Kirkwall,” Bethany countered, unmoved by Veidra’s caustic tone. But that was Bethy. She could take Veidra’s worst and brush it off without batting an eyelash. 

“True, must you always be right?” Veidra asked as she unzipped her dress. It caught and she snarled out a curse. Bethy snickered at her and rolled over, sitting up and motioning at Veidra. 

“Yes, now come here before you hurt yourself.”

Veidra begrudgingly listened. Beth carefully fixed the problem and unzipped the dress the rest of the way. The sigh that fell from Veidra’s lips was one of utter relief. She shimmied the fabric off. Bethy stared at Veidra’s feet, aghast. 

“What?”

“Your stockings are completely torn at the feet! Where are your heels, Vei?”

“Oh, that,” Veidra shrugged, “one broke so I kicked them off while fighting a Templar.”

Beth’s eyes snapped up to her face, “_what?! You did what now?!”_

“Shh! You’ll wake the house!” Veidra hissed as she moved to shush her sibling. 

“Vei!” Beth hissed back, keeping her voice lowered, “what were you doing, fighting a Templar?”

“Well, _fight_ might be a bit strong of a word,” Veidra tugged a lock of hair nervously, “and I may have…um…kissed him too?”

“Maker’s holy breath!”

Veidra huffed and turned to sit beside Bethany, uncaring that she was wearing nothing but scanty lingerie. “Everything got all muddied up so quickly. We both thought the other was part of what we were looking for then…nightguards,” she waved her hand as though just the one word was descriptive enough.

“And…how does _that_ have to do with _kissing_ a blasted _Templar_?”

“…well, the nightguards. They were marching past and he…sort of kissed me in order to conceal us. In a way.”

“…why…would that matter…?”

Veidra pursed her lips, “you know? I really have _no_ idea.”

“You _enjoyed_ it!” Beth accused.

Veidra turned and began to smack her sister. Bethy fell over in a fit of giggles, trying to escape her elder sibling’s playful wrath. “Hush you! Fiend!”

The door flew open and Veidra looked up. Their uncle stood there; a look of fury on his face. Until he saw the lack of clothing on Veidra. He spun around with a loud exclamation. 

“You two will wake the dead with that ruckus! Shut your pie-holes and let me sleep! I have business to worry over tomorrow! And _you_, _you_ look like a street-walker! Leandra! Your daughter isn’t a fucking whore now too, is she?!” Gamlen howled into the house. 

Bethy rose, actual ire on her lovely face. Veidra rolled her eyes at her uncle’s back. 

“What? Now a woman cannot go around in her undergarments around the bedroom she was supposedly given without having a rude old man burst in to yell at her?” She loudly drawled.

“Rude old man?!” Gamlen sputtered, nearly turning around. Leandra glared at her from the other side of the door. 

“Veidra, _please_,” Leandra stressed, “put something decent on!”

Veidra slammed the bedroom door and turned to her wardrobe. She practically ripped her lacy stocking from her body. She threw her gloves in with the stockings onto the floor of the wardrobe and yanked on some tight, a skirt and a comfortable button-down blouse with her holster; over that she threw a vest where her pistol was easily hidden. She shoved on some combat boots with her hidden daggers sewn into the middle lining and threw open the door. She stormed across the small home to the front door.

“Where are you going? Veidra?!” Leandra tried to catch her. 

Veidra threw open the front door, “out.”

“You’d best not bring the Templars down on my head, girl! Whore if you want but don’t you _dare_ bring that shit back _here!” _Gamlen yelled after her. 

Veidra didn’t bother to even shut the front door. Let the world see the piece of shit that was her uncle for what he was. She yanked her hair down as she stalked the night streets toward the Hanged Man. The shoulder length strands bounced along her shoulders. She reached the bar and stepped inside. The stench of shitty beer, the squeal of bad singing, and the drunken slurs were more like home for her now than her own bedroom. She nodded to the bartender. He nodded back and turned to grab her beer for her. She took it and slapped down the coin for the bottle. She turned and took a long swig. The beer may be shitty, but at least it was still beer. 

Leaning on the bar, she watched the crowd. A familiar figure sashayed around in what could hardly be called a dress. The darker skinned woman spotted her and shot her that devious smile. Isabela of Rivain. She was as deadly as she was beautiful. Bells slid up alongside her, leaning back on her elbows. The pencil skirt bottom of her dress had been modified to have slits up nearly to the top of her hips. The blouse bodice was unbuttoned down beyond the point of decency. She held her hair back with a scarf. Probably another conquest’s scarf she lifted as a prize. 

“Well don’t you just look dismal,” Isabela sighed as she grabbed Veidra’s beer and took a swig.

“It’s been a long night,” Veidra took her beer back and took another pull from the bottle. 

“I’d say. Smudged lipstick, sex hair…you got laid tonight?”

“Ha! If only,” Veidra snorted and shook her head as she grabbed a napkin to scrub her lipstick off. 

“So…why is your makeup smudged like you had a serious make out session?”

Veidra tried to ignore the way her cheeks warmed uncomfortably. 

“Veidra Hawke!” Bells laughed, “you kissed and won’t tell?”

“It wasn’t on purpose!”

Bells laughed harder, “oh, _please…do tell. _How does one kiss _accidentally_?”

“Uh…” Veidra blanked, “shit. Okay, well, maybe not_ accidentally_ but it wasn’t for romantic reasons! He just grabbed me and kissed me—”

“My, my! Juicier and juicier!”

“Oh shut up!” Veidra groused, “we were trying to hide from the nightguard.”

“…why would you be hiding from--?”

“Can you_ stop asking?_ _Please?” _

Bells grinned and snickered, “aw, you’re so adorable when you’re embarrassed. I assume he was at least a good kisser then?”

Veidra stared at her bottle. Bells’ probing look made her finally crack, “yes…”

“Why didn’t you jump his bones then?”

“Complicated.”

“Isn’t it always?” Bells rolled her eyes.

“Bells, he’s a bloody Templar.”

Bells stared at her, completely aghast. “You—a Templar?”

“Again, complicated.”

“No, love, you’ve jumped far past _complicated_ into the realms of _fucking batshit insane_.”

Veidra groaned, covering her face. Bells reached up to squeeze her shoulder. It didn’t help. In fact, it made her feel even more like an idiot. She sighed and turned around, chugging her beer. She waved for another. She hung her head, “then Gamlen decided to barge into our room while I was in my undergarments to accuse me of being a whore.”

“…shall I liberate him of his balls? He obviously has no use for them.”

Veidra snorted and smirked, “tempting offer, but if anyone is going to hurt that bastard…it will be me. No. He’s still my uncle whether I like it or not.”

“If you ever change your mind, love. Simply say the word.”

“Of course,” Veidra picked up her second beer and took a long drink. Bells spotted something that caught her eye. She licked her lips.

“Mm, now if you’ll excuse me…I seem to have rather delicious morsel to devour,” Bells sauntered toward the poor fool sitting further into the bar. He had no idea how doomed he was. 

Veidra couldn’t wait to go on the damned expedition the dwarf upstairs had planned. Once she returned, she could hopefully purchase back their family estate Gamlen gambled away. In the meantime, she had to find everything she could on the blasted slave trade. If the Templars wouldn’t do anything without _evidence_, then _evidence_ she would get. With that in mind, she finished her beer and made her way back home. A good night’s rest would help. It was time to up the ante. 

Every night that whole week, she sang and watched. A piece of her that she didn’t want to even acknowledge kept searching for that blasted Templar. He was nowhere to be seen. She’d even stooped so low as to ask Edith about him and his friend. Besides the apparently _very nice_ evening she’d shared with the dark-haired Templar, she had nothing else to tell Veidra. Disgust and frustration at herself and the world at large made her want to punch something. But she donned those dresses, heels, and makeup every night. The enticing looks she threw out, the catcalls, the whistles, and the lingering looks she received only made her want to stab people more. If only she could carry her pistol. It would make her feel better. But her daggers weren’t expected. So she wore those. 

It was Friday evening. Tonight she wore a backless dress with crisscrossing straps that held the dress on. It was a sparkling lace overlay atop a deep burgundy dress. Beth had pinned her hair up for her tonight. Her lips were colored the same deep red she wore almost every night. Her black silk gloves were up to her elbows. She wore a different pair of stilettos. These were borrowed from Bells on pain of death should they get ruined. The smooth jazz lyrics flowed from her like smoke over water. Her eyes spotted the usual suspect in the corner. His entourage was there. She swayed herself with the tune of the piano notes and turned to pin him with as luring a look as she could muster. She couldn’t really see his face for all the cigar smoke. But she winked at him. Praying she was his type, she waited with baited breath. He snapped his fingers at one of the men beside him. The man leaned down so that the seated man could speak into his ear. The leaning man nodded once and stood, moving away from the table. 

Veidra wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad. She wasn’t a damsel likely to be in distress by any means. A former foot-soldier in King Cailan’s army, Veidra was a fighter to say the least. However, even _she_ wasn’t fond of being surrounded and outnumbered. As the song ended and her time on stage drew to a close for the night, she stepped off stage. A suited man, the one from by the seated man, was waiting for her. 

“Marcius would like a word, Sparrow.”

Veidra blinked, pretending to be taken aback. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No, just follow me.”

She nodded and stepped behind him, following in his shadow. He led her out the back doors. Her heart was instantly in her throat. Her blood singing. Her instincts kicked in. Was she about to have to fight? She kept her face calm outwardly but inside she was a storm. They stepped outside. He motioned for her to go ahead of him and she let some irritation leak onto her face.

“This is a bit ominous; don’t you think?” She asked as she began to walk ahead of him toward the other end of the alleyway. He didn’t answer. That didn’t make her feel any better. They rounded a corner and she came upon the gaggle of well-dressed men. The cigar-smoker was in a tasteless white suit. He turned as she approached and held his hands out to either side.

“Had I known the infamous Sparrow was taken with little ole me, I would have made a move much sooner,” he smirked. 

He was easily in his forties. His jacket wasn’t on his arms but dangling off his shoulders. His pinstripe blue button down covered by a white vest as well. She forced a smile to her lips. He could have passed for her uncle. Slimy, disgusting little eel. He flicked his cigar to the ground. One of his goons stepped on it to put it out. 

“So…_pet_…what do you say to a little…R and R. Just you and me?”

Oh…how she was most certainly _not_ his pet. “Of course,” she purred instead. He grinned at her; the twisted expression showing his just how depraved he was. He slid his hand onto her back and then down to squeeze her ass. They moved along until they were at the docks. A small boat waited. 

Shit.

He pushed her gently but firmly toward the boat. She stepped into it and sat down. Well. So much for _that_ well laid plan. She was _not_ looking forward to telling Bells she lost her stilettos in the fucking sea when she had to _swim_ back to dry land. The boat took off and they sailed around the edge of the city to another dock that led closer to Dark Town. Well, wasn’t _that_ an interesting twist? The boat pulled up to dock and she took the hand offered her to exit the boat. She walked a long time in those stilettos. Through Dark Town and then up to High Town through a secret elevator. The manor they took her to was vaguely familiar. She’d walked past it before several times. Especially when speaking to Aveline at the Viscount’s—oh…oh shit. 

If they had seen her go there and walk past here? What fuckery did she just get herself into? She forced a calm she certainly did _not_ feel over herself. Once inside the manor, the men placed themselves along the exits. She followed the white-suit, she assumed was Marcius, up a long stairwell into a hallway. The door he opened led to a _huge_ bedroom full of gaudy décor and lavish furniture. She wasn’t impressed. 

He tossed his jacket aside and waved at her to sit on the oversized bed. He began to loosen his tie and remove his vest. 

“So,” he leered at her, “you as good with that little tongue as you are with your voice?”

She nearly gagged in revulsion. Where was the damn _attempt _at wooing? “One can only find out.”

He chuckled as he threw his vest aside. She rose and turned her back to him. She reached up to unpin her hair slowly, letting it fall into the curls Beth had made before pinning them up. A low groan met her ears and she barely restrained the urge to roll her eyes. She slipped the tiny vial of sleep potion into her hand discretely and pulled it around with her hairpins to her front. She quickly uncapped it and sipped it under her tongue, holding it there; being extra careful not to swallow. She’d made it extra sweet so that he wouldn’t be able to tell what it was until it was too late. She turned around and slowly rolled her gloves down and off her fingers as she sashayed her way to him. She ran her bare hands up his mostly opened shirt. Leaning forward, she planted a kiss on him. He made a sound that made her want to puke in his mouth. Ugh. She hated this part. His tongue was just like him. Greasy and disgusting. And he so easily took the potion from her tongue. He swallowed and she quickly guided him to the bed. She pushed him down and he chuckled at her. Though the sound was sluggish. His body began to sway before he fell over. He was snoring in seconds. 

She turned and quickly found the bathroom. She spat the remnants of the drug from her mouth and swished around some water to cleanse it too. Once that was done, she set to work. She quickly scoured the room. Top to bottom. She was about to give up and angrily leave when she spotted an odd pattern in the wood grains of the bedpost. She knelt and wiggled it. A tiny sound of victory escaped her as she pried it open and found the documents buried there. She flipped through them and felt her victorious feeling meld into hot fury. Oh, how she wanted to slit his throat right then while he slept. Unfortunately, that would just lead back to her right away. She pushed the compartment back into place and crammed the shipping manifests up her skirt; wedging them under the belt of her dagger sheaths. She then walked back to the man and sneered. She set to work. She opened his pants, tugging them down enough to expose his flaccid member. She snickered to herself softly as he was rather…unimpressive. She arranged his body so that he would look like he’d had quite the happy ending. 

She doubled back to the bathroom. She found some lotion and quickly returned. She smeared a bit on his inner thighs, very carefully avoiding touching _his thing_ at all costs. Once that was done, she set the lotion on the nightstand. She retrieved her gloves but left her hairpins. Besides, _evidence_ for him to find was a good plan to follow. He’d wake tomorrow feeling sluggish and rested with hardly a recollection of how he got the way he did. The clues she left would lead him to the conclusion that she’d…pleasured him and then left him when he passed out. With that in mind, she scurried out after tucking the empty vial into her other dagger sheath belt. She came down the stairs. She didn’t have to hide her disgust now. One of the men looked up at her as the approached the door.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Didn’t last long enough for much else,” she sighed.

The man snorted in amusement as he opened the door for her, “nothing new there.”

Oh. Good. He was known for being a fast shooter. She smiled and stepped out. The walk home was long, painful, and tiresome. She reached her home and stared at the door. She did _not_ want to go in. She knew what waited in _there_. So…she chose to do something incredibly stupid. She walked past her home and down to the private docks that would take her to the Gallows. She only _hoped_ Knight-Captain Rutherford wouldn’t just toss her out for her appearance alone. Hopefully the Templar had told the Knight-Captain of his possible connection to the smuggling case. 

* * *


	3. Warning

* * *

“Knight-Captain?”

Shuffling papers atop the desk, a grunt answered the call at the door. The door swung open just enough for the Knight-Recruit to sheepishly peer within. He looked up; his expression clearly asking _what do you want?_ The Knight-Recruit cleared his throat and shifted his weight nervously.

“There’s, erm, a _lady_…here to see you…”

“A lady? To see me?”

“Yes, ser…she’s…eh…well, she says she _has something for you_…”

Cullen sighed, dragging his gloved hand over his face. “Ser Abney, was it?”

“Y—yes, ser?”

“Ser Abney, it would be greatly beneficial if you would be so inclined as to provide just _a bit_ more information than _a lady is here to see me with something for me_. I happen to be quite busy,” Cullen swept a hand out over his desk for emphasis, “as you can see.”

Ser Abney cleared his throat, “I—I do see, ser. Shall I send her away then?”

Cullen’s eye twitched. The urge to snap was rising so he took a calming breath. “_No,_ Ser Abney…would you be so kind as to tell me _what _she is bringing me?”

“Oh! Oh, right! She has papers? Says they are something the Knight-Captain would be interested in.”

Cullen frowned. What would he be interested in? “Send her in.”

The man blushed rather brightly, “y—yes ser. Right away ser.”

Cullen waited for the recruit to be out of his office fully before he rolled his eyes. He remembered being so green and utterly _young_ once. Overeager to prove himself. _That_ had ended well for him, now hadn’t it? He began to go back over what he had before him. Shipping manifests of all the ships that came and went from Kirkwall. All of which were wares and goods that were approved by the City Guard, Night Guard, and even Chantry. His hunch wasn’t letting go of him, though. _Skin trade_. It kept vibrating through his mind. Damnit, what was he missing? If he could just get a _tiny_ bit of evidence to take to Stannard he’d have a chance to _truly_ investigate! 

He lifted his hand and made a motion to come in at the knock on his open door. He didn’t look up. The click of heels on stone filled the hall and then stopped within in his office. 

“I’ve brought the _lady_, ser—”

“Andraste’s tits! _You’re_ the Knight-Captain!?”

Cullen’s head snapped up at the voice. He would recognize that unique voice—and crass tongue—anywhere. It had hardly let him be most nights. Musing over the odd woman’s behaviors, her voice, her singing, and that kiss. He stared a beat too long with wide eyes at her. The Knight-Recruit looking between them uncomfortably. 

“Sparrow?” Cullen finally managed to croak out, “wait…you have something for me?”

If she came here personally…did that mean she had what he needed to show Stannard? He straightened and rounded the desk, ignoring the recruit. By the sudden damnable smirk on her painted lips, she did. He remembered the recruit and waved him out. 

“I’ll take it from here, Ser Abney. Go about your duties.”

Ser Abney bowed and stepped out, still blushing. Cullen didn’t bother with that now. The recruit remembered to close his office door this time. Sparrow yanked her skirt up. Cullen swore loudly and covered his face.

“Maker’s breath, woman! What _is it_ with you and lifting your skirts before men so easily?!”

She snorted. The sound of papers rustling filled his office, “you should hear what my _dear uncle_ has to say about me. Here, you wanted evidence. So I brought you some.”

Cullen dropped his hand, glad to see she was semi-decent again. Not that her dress could be really considered _decent_. He took the papers she offered and began to flip through them. He leaned back on his desk as he skimmed them. His eyes growing in size as he did. Shipping manifests. _Slave trade_ manifests. And if he wasn’t mistaken…illegal lyrium smuggling as well. 

“Maker, I could kiss you!” He exclaimed excitedly as he flipped through page after page of solid trail to follow. With this, he could not only openly investigate this case but close it with ease as well! 

She laughed, “I seem to recall you already _did_ that before. Not that I’d protest another one…”

He frowned over the papers before he recalled what he’d just said. A blush warmed his cheeks. Oh. Did he really say that aloud? Her little laugh did a number to his masculine pride. Why did she have to sound so…beguiling? Her eyes skimmed over his body openly. He wasn’t sure why he felt the desire to puff out his chest and preen. Shoving that down like a vat of grapes to be squeezed for wine, he dropped his gaze back to the papers in hand. 

“Should I even ask how you got these?”

“…a bit of self-disrespect and a lot of risk.”

He glanced at her then, taking in her appearance. She did look a bit bedraggled. And tired. She looked so exhausted. The gentleman within wouldn’t permit him to ignore that. 

“Why don’t you take a seat in my chair there? I need to go over this fully anyway and it may be an opportunity to ask you any questions I have. Are you willing to be a witness?”

His eyes glued unbiddenly to the sway of her lovely hips as she sauntered around the desk to his chair. He slapped himself mentally. She sank into his chair. He turned around so that he could look at her while they conversed. She reclined in his chair and turned to kick her legs up to rest her stockinged feet upon his desk. She hung her head back and groaned. Maker, what impure thoughts that sound made him stamp down. She rolled her head to pin him with a look. 

“No,” she sighed, “I am not. If I need to get back into that club in the future for any other reason, I don’t want to be pegged at the door and dragged off, drugged, and sent to the bottom of the sea to swim with the fishes. As it stands, the most they can pin me with is leaving a debauched man in a state of flagrant aftermath.”

Cullen curled his lip at that. So…she used her body to get this evidence? Wonderful. He felt disgusted for more reasons than he cared to admit. His tongue betrayed him before he could catch himself. “Ah, so you _seduced_ him.”

“…my, my, Knight-Captain…could you sound any more revolted?” She chuckled, “not that it matters, but I didn’t touch him like that nor did he touch _me_ that way. I am a master of the art of suggestion after all. He’ll _believe_ I thoroughly sated him.”

“And you expect me to believe you didn’t?” He snapped, cursing his inability to bite his own tongue.

Her eyes darkened with ire. She sat up slowly, turning to rise. She leaned on his desk to meet him face to face. “Believe it or not, _Knight-Captain_, I am _not_ that kind of woman. I may flaunt my Maker-given assets to tease information from lips that otherwise would stay sealed…but I _do not_ allow those assets to fall into just _anyone’s_ hands. I drugged the bastard. He won’t be able to tell the difference between an alcoholic stupor or what really occurred. As far as he’s concerned, he got shitfaced, sucked off, and left in his own mess.”

Cullen watched her lips, entranced as she spoke with conviction and a note of insult. Maker, she was _so very crass_. But he couldn’t help but feel a bit…affected by her dirty mouth. Clearing his throat, he averted his gaze and turned his head. Rubbing his neck, he took a deep breath. 

“Ah, I see. Well, then…that’s…good I suppose.”

She snorted, but it wasn’t with the same petulance. This time it was with reigned anger. “Yes, yes, poor little Chantry boy. Can’t stand the thought of a woman spreading her legs for anything but the Maker.”

He saw a bit of red at that. Not only was she being blasphemous, but also very insulting toward him personally. He ground his teeth, “you _do_ recall where you are standing, Miss Sparrow…don’t you?”

“Oh, I’m _well_ aware. I just don’t care. I don’t like being called a whore by strangers. I get enough of that from my uncle, thank you very much. Just because the Chantry’s methods don’t work, doesn’t mean _mine_ should be bashed down. I get results where you boys can’t.”

Cullen met her angry gaze with his own, she clucked her tongue and growled. The sound affecting him far more than it should have. She bent to grab her heels and rounded his desk. She shouldered by him. The bump was hardly even enough to move him. But something inside of him reacted. He snagged her about her waist and yanked her back. He shoved her against his desk and caged her in with an arm on either side of her hips. His grip tight on his desk. His jaw was clenched, his eyes sparking with annoyance. She met him tit-for-tat. Her own grey-green eyes not flinching from his. Not even once did she look away. She didn’t even bat an eyelash as he leaned over her. He was taller and larger than she. Any _normal_ woman would have shied away, backed down, or tried to escape him. She wasn’t normal though, was she? She challenged right back without faltering. Perhaps that’s what made him kiss her. Perhaps that’s what made him hoist her up onto his desk as she responded fervently. 

Her shapely legs hooked around his hips and yanked him closer. His hands were up her skirt as hers yanked at the front of his uniform jacket. He nipped her lip and pushed against her core. Maker…she was so _hot_ against him, even through her pathetic excuse for smalls and his layers of uniform. One of her hands snaked down and palmed his growing erection through his pants. He groaned and buried his hand in her hair, tipping her head back to lavish her neck with hot kisses. Her breaths were coming out in little pants; her breasts rising and falling with each huff. Oh…Maker…he should step back. Regain his head. Both of them. But he couldn’t. She was like a fine wine on his tongue. Addictive and so willing; she rocked sinfully and he groaned low in his throat at the way it sent tremors through his body. A loud knock at the door had them parting so fast, one would think they’d been electrocuted. She was off his desk and standing, facing the window. He cleared his throat and quickly stood behind his desk to hide the evidence of his arousal. He leaned on the desk and barked out for whoever it was to enter.

The door opened and Rylen stepped inside with a quirked brow. He held two bags of take-out grub in one hand and a coffee carrier in the other. “You all right, mate? I called out three times before I knocked.”

“I was distracted,” Cullen mumbled. Rylen spied the woman standing by the window. His eyes grew as he looked back at Cullen in stunned silence. Cullen shook his head, “Miss Sparrow brought us some evidence for that smuggling case we’ve been trying to get a lead on for a while now.”

“Oh…right.” Rylen cleared his throat and made a motion to Cullen. Cullen frowned before Rylen rolled his eyes, kicking the door shut. “You might want to wipe the makeup from your lips, mate.”

Cullen’s face heated instantly as he snapped his hands to his mouth. He shot Sparrow an accusatory glare as she turned around and giggled. Her lipstick had been fixed, it would seem. She looked wholly unrepentant. Maker, had he really nearly lost control of himself like that? She was proving to be a distraction he couldn’t afford. She moved for the door, her heels clicking softly on the stone. 

“I should probably get back to my part of the city. Don’t sit on your firm asses too long, Chantry boys.” She smirked and winked before she was out the door and out of his line of sight. 

Rylen stood to the side. The Starkhavener cleared his throat again, _loudly_. Cullen jolted at the sound. With a huff of irritation with himself, Cullen raked a hand through his hair. Rylen shook his head, “well, can’t say I blame you, mate. She’s one lovely lass. Seems to have quite the tongue on her too.”

“You have no idea,” Cullen mumbled and picked up the papers she’d given him. He held them to Rylen. “She acquired these. Shipping manifests on slave trafficking and illegal lyrium smuggling under these companies listed.”

Rylen took the papers, wisely not commenting on Cullen’s answer. He raised his teal-colored eyes in shock. “Is this for real, mate?! We couldn’t find _anything_ on these companies when we stretched our sources out!”

“I know,” Cullen frowned, “which means…either we have far less influence than we believe—”

“Or we have a fecking mole,” Rylen finished with a grunt.

Cullen nodded, crossing his arms. “Exactly what I was thinking.”

“This woman is _good_. Where did she find this?”

“…she followed a lead and slipped it out from under his nose.”

Rylen nodded, clearly impressed. Cullen didn’t understand why he’d not just told Rylen outright _how_ she’d gotten them. For some reason, he just…didn’t want the other man to know her methods. Was he ashamed of how she got them? No. No, that couldn’t be it. They were no strangers to asking whores and prostitutes to gather information for them at a cost. So why did he not feel inclined to share that tidbit with his closest friend and partner? He trusted Rylen with his life. Shaking that off, he sank into his chair. A waft of perfume enveloped him. Sparrow. She didn’t wear floral perfumes like most women and ladies did. Her perfume held a vanilla and honey note. _‘It’s quite pleasant,’ _he thought as he inhaled discretely once more. 

“Should we take this to Knight-Commander Stannard?” Rylen asked.

Cullen nodded, “yes. I think that best. The sooner we get the clear to go ahead with this case, the sooner we can be done with it.”

“Aye.”

…..

The docks were lively in the middle of the day. So far, they’d managed to shut down three of the five companies heavily involved in the slave trafficking ring. The pressure was on and the other two were trying to wheedle their way out of trouble. It would do them no good. By the end of the day, Cullen was exhausted but feeling rather accomplished. Not for the first time that day, he’d thought of finding Sparrow to thank her for her aid with the case. Without her evidence, they wouldn’t have gotten very far. Even Knight-Commander Stannard was impressed with Sparrow’s results. She’d informed Cullen that he should persuade Sparrow to pledge her services to the Order in order to aid them further. Sparrow could get where Templars could not go easily. It made sense. So why did it fill him with a sense of dread? 

In some ways, it was probably for the best that he hadn’t found out her contact information. As they returned to the Gallows for the evening, Cullen mused over the idea of a hot shower and meal before sleeping. Rylen seemed to echo his sentiments. It didn’t take long to get settled. The next few days rolled by in a similar fashion. Eat, work, train, eat, teach, pray, eat, work, bathe, sleep…a cycle that was predictive and easy to follow. Small missions came and went from his desk. He didn’t need to go _out_ for too many of them in any case. He was able to assign most of the missions. The days turned into weeks.

A few new mages were being brought in for practicing magic outside of the designated areas allotted them within Kirkwall. He was supposed to meet with the new mages and appoint them their areas. First Enchanter Orsino was to oversee their placements as well. He tucked his papers away and shrugged his uniform jacket on. The crisp grey uniform with blue stripes down the arms, his rank sewn into the left breast pocket, and the Order’s sigil embroidered onto the back was well pressed and maintained. He grabbed his matching grey hat that was angled in a flat, straight line from above the blue brim down to the back of the hat. He held squared his shoulders up and left his office. Several of the men and women of the Order stopped to salute him properly as he strode with purpose to the courtyard of the Gallows. 

He stepped into the open area and was faced with six mages of differing ages. One of the them was a young woman with deep brunette, wavy hair, and hazel eyes. The other woman was an elf-blooded one. Her ears were tapered into a shorter version of the full-blooded elves in the alienage. Something about that brunette though…it struck him as familiar. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Like she wasn’t the least bit ashamed of being caught. All the others were at least wise enough to look chagrined. This one…she oozed defiance. Perhaps that’s what it was? He came to a stand before the group, tucking his hands behind him and standing with feet shoulder width apart. He looked over each of them before addressing them.

“As you are probably aware, it has come to the Order’s attention that you were found to be practicing outside of the regulated areas—”

“Of _course_ your Templars would tell you that!” One of the men shouted, looking around wildly. 

Cullen felt his own defenses rise. He could already feel the pull of the man calling on the Fade. Wonderful. Just what they needed. Another out of control mage. Cullen looked at Orsino sharply and pointedly. Orsino sighed and stepped forward.

“I understand your concern,” Orsino spoke in a soothing tone, “but the Circle is just as much a haven to learn how to hone your skills and practice restraint—”

“By whose standards?” The woman’s accent struck Cullen. It was like Sparrow’s. Ferelden mostly but with an edge of Marcher. 

“As long as you follow the rules and are careful, you will have nothing to fear,” Cullen reassured her.

She snorted and rolled her eyes but said nothing further. The rest of the debriefing went well, shockingly. The panicking man seemed cowed at least for now. When their roles were assigned the woman who revealed her name was Bethany Hawke addressed him directly then.

“Are we to be allowed visitors at the very least?”

“Of course,” Cullen inclined his head, “we _do_ have visiting hours for family. But strictly family only.”

“Oh, good. Because I’m sure my oldest sibling will be rather cross when they return home and find me missing.”

Cullen almost bit the bait, but he smiled thinly at her instead. “Of course. As long as they sign in and visit during the visitor’s hours, then there shouldn’t be an issue.”

He watched as the six mages shuffled into the door, led by Orsino and followed by a few Knight-Templars. He sighed and turned on his heel to head back to his office. Just as he reached the door, he glanced over at the walkway the mages were taken through with the gated sides. That brunette looked over and glared at him. He stiffened. She turned away and continued forward with her shoulders squared and proud. He frowned after her. He had the feeling she was going to wind up being a bit more trouble than not.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Mwah!
> 
> Also, song in this was a jazzy rendition of Skin Trade by Duran Duran. The singer is Anakelly. Here's the youtube link, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CsJs_hEC_4E&t=7384s It's at the 14:51 minute mark. Most of the music I am writing this piece to are from this video or any of the Vintage Café or Vintage Lounge albums posted on youtube.


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